


Overload

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Boys Kissing, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: Look. Pause. Tilt head.Dumb advice which Takahiro hadn't even realised he'd taken to heart until he acted upon it.  He could take the Oikawa way and brazen this out, or the Iwaizumi course of action where he confronts the issue head on.Or he could run away. Skip school and the country and never be heard of again. (He's heard New Zealand is nice).He's in overload, stuck at a station with no idea of his destination.





	Overload

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for MatsuHana Week Day Four, and I used the songfic prompt going for the feel of overload and panic that's rife in the song when you see the person you're crushing on and the possibilities are unclear.  
> The song is Overload by Sugababes.

_'Skipping school, go walk for air_  
_I just had to get out of bed_  
_I'm on overload in my head_ _'_

 

He could stay in bed.

Call out in a weak voice that he felt ill and hope his mum would agree he could stay off school. He was, on the whole, a diligent student, so the likelihood was she’d believe him, especially after he’d pushed away his food last night and claimed a headache.

“Mu—”

But if he didn’t appear at school, there’d be texts and then visits and he could hardly ignore solicitous guests.

Or maybe no one would text. Or visit.

And that would be far, far worse.

Wouldn’t it?

And if he stayed in bed, it would all still be there. Nothing would have resolved.

He needed air.

Suddenly he needed air and ran to his window, opening it wide to take in a lungful.

“Breakfast is ready.”

His stomach rumbled in response, its hollowness begging Takahiro to listen. But then it clenched and he knew he’d never enjoy food again. How could he? After yesterday it would be better to never let another morsel pass his lips. He could fade away and …

“Takahiro!”

“Coming, Mum.”

He slouched into the kitchen, sat at the table and stirred his okayu half-heartedly.

His mum glanced his way. “You look terrible.”

Maybe he _could_ fake illness. He smiled wanly.

“Too much internet late at night,” she continued, pursing her lips as she turning away.

“No… I …” Oh, what was the use. He blew on his spoon and scooped it into his mouth. “Sorry.”

 

He’d put his phone away. Turned it off and shoved it in his bag, only checking for messages at four AM when he couldn’t hold out any longer.

But apart from a meme battle in the team chat between Yahaba and Kunimi, there’d been nothing.

Nothing.

 

 

“Did you sleep at all?” she nagged. “Honestly, Takahiro, I know you’re disappointed, but now you have no more matches there’s no excuse not to concentrate on your studies.”

 _Thanks for reminding me,_ he thought sourly, and stabbed his spoon into the bowl.

Outside sleet began to fall, adding to the already grey sludge on the pavements, and he wondered—briefly—what the weather was like in Tokyo. Then kicked himself because what was the point in thinking about Tokyo. He wouldn’t be going there. He was here in Miyagi about to go to school and would not be taking part in the tournament he’d striven to reach for three years.

‘Disappointment’ didn’t even come close to describing it.

He blinked.

But maybe it explained … he could use it as an excuse …

“Look, if you really are ill and this isn’t just tiredness, Taka, then you can have the day off.”

“Huh?” He shook his head. “No, I’m fine, Mum.”

The way he saw it, he had two options. The Oikawa way of breezing through and pretending nothing had happened, however outrageously he’d acted, or the Iwaizumi way, confronting the issue head on.

There was no third way. So after his shower, he got dressed, tied his tie extra carefully, wrapped himself in his most sober scarf and thick coat and trudged to school.

He’d know what to do when he saw him.

He was sure of that.

_I could … I mean, we could … talk this through after school over tea. No pressure. I’ll order crème puffs for us both, he can choose the tea blend, and we’ll discuss whatever it was, whether it was anything, anything at all, rationally._

Takahiro closed his eyes trying to visualise the event _(Look. Pause. Tilt head.)_

And then slipped on a particularly sludgy paving stone and cannoned into a rubbish bin.

“Maybe walking along with your eyes open would be wise,” snapped an old lady, shuffling along with a dog.

“At least he wasn’t glued to his phone,” her friend replied, a little more benevolently.

The dog sniffed at Takahiro’s shoe and he sidestepped away in case the hound thought he was a tree or a lamppost.

_Um … what was I thinking about? Oh … yeah._

The changing room swam into view. Theoretically now their matches had ended, he no longer had to attend practice, but he’d not quite been able to give it up yet, liking the camaraderie, he told himself. And the fact it kept him fit was the other reason.

Andithadnothingtodowiththefactthatacertainsomeonewasalsothereandhewasworriedtheymightdriftapartiftheydidntseeeachotherafterschool.

Nothing. At. All.

 

So, changing room. He’d strained his thigh so had left early but sat on the bench waiting for the others. Gingerly, Takahiro stretched out his leg, but there wasn’t even a twinge now. Then he’d been joined by … Uh … yeah.

And that was all normal, that was usual, Mattsun didn’t have to stay  ‘til the end after all and they’d got to talking, like they always did, and Mattsun had said something along the lines of at least he hadn’t been hurt during a match, then he’d stopped talking as both realised.

Silence blanketed them, not even the sounds of the practise breaking the quiet.

“I wish.” He’d  gulped down the rest of the words. Self-pity, nostalgia, wishful thinking, regrets … none of that was allowed.  

Mattsun had nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

_(Look. Pause. Tilt head.)_

 

Something dripped down Takahiro’s neck, and he shivered, then huddled further into his coat. He’d be late if he didn’t get a move on. So, he picked up his pace, drove every thought about the day before out of his head and focused on the facts he had a history book to return to the library and he should get the results of his last maths test.

_School. School. School. Nothing else matters. I can do this._

And then he saw a figure in the opposite direction. Tall—lanky even—a beanpole, with his black mussy hair hidden under a ridiculous woollen hat with a bobble and his bag slung over one shoulder.  Takahiro saw the figure slinking towards the school gates and knew, without a shadow of any doubt, that he could not do this at all.

Turning tail, he ran (or rather skidded) across the road, going wherever the slide would take him.

Down a side street, he waited and watched his panted white exhalations disappear into the air. He could go back. He’d be a little late, but if he ran he could make it before the second bell and then head down with all his lessons, maybe go to the library for lunch, and then scoot out early. Home, homework, bed.

Rinse and repeat.

Hell, he could avoid him till the end of the year if necessary. And then they’d graduate, and he’d get a job in … uh … Nago, or emigrate… yes move abroad. He’d heard New Zealand was nice. Full of sheep with soft woollen fleece like mussed up hair and—

_(Look. Pause. Tilt head.)_

“SHIT!” Whacking himself on the side of his head, he tried more than anything to punch out that image, stop the pictures from forming.  But the movie in his head continued, carrying on as if the camera had kept on filming even after the protagonists had leapt apart.

“DAMMIT!”

He ran as quickly as he could over the slushy streets. It was only when he got in sight of the station that he remembered he had no plan. He could go home, but he’d be too late to pull the ‘I got halfway there and felt like crap so came back’ excuse. And now he’d skipped and missed registration, he couldn’t tell his mum that the school had sent him home.

He huffed out his cheeks. This was not the main station, but the small more-or-less deserted backwater one that no one used unless they were going to Aobajousai. And as the bell would have gone for school, it was quiet now, so he could sit on the platform, or in the waiting room, and contemplate his decisions in life.

_(Look. Pause. Tilt head.)_

That damn show!

He skulked through the station gate, flashed his rail card and headed for the platform.

“Uh… Makki?”

Oh. Shit.

He didn’t need to look. Didn’t need his eyes to tell him just who was sitting on the platform bench. His ears worked perfectly well. As did his treacherous face, flushing a probably vile puce even more noticeable in this weather.

“Did you … um … follow me?”

“Me?” Takahiro’s face flushed even deeper and he could feel a restriction in his throat. He coughed. “No… I … just … Oi! Hold on, why are you here?”

“Uhm…” Mattsun had this way of drawling out words that on anyone else would sound arrogant (certainly when Oikawa did it, he sounded like a complete twat) but on Mattsun only served to highlight a certain lilt to his voice. Coupled with the arched eyebrow that usually accompanied said drawl, and it was one of the characteristics about Mattsun that Taka had noticed first.  (Yes, he guessed it should have been his height because Mattsun had been _inexcusably_ tall in his first year, whereas Taka had sprouted in his second year, but they’d been sitting down in the gym at Seijou, so how was he to know Mattsun was such a beanpole.)

“I …uh … same as you … maybe?”

He gave his best nonplussed expression. “What?”

“D-day off.”  Mattsun chewed the side of his nail.

 “Oh, yeah right.” And because it was cold and Mattsun’s bench was at least undercover, Taka shuffled next to him.

_Yeah, I can do this._

And he could because this was Mattsun, and they’d always been comfortable in each other’s company, ever since they’d both burst into laughter at Oikawa’s first ever Seijou tantrum.

“So.” Mattsun toe-poked him. “Where are we going?”

“I have no idea.”

“This is a train station,” he reasoned. “The trains have to go somewhere. I could check the timetable.”

“Or…”

“What?” Mattsun asked, and nudged him again.

“Let’s get on the next train that pulls up and get on it anyway. No checking the destination.”

“You’re a wild ‘un,” Mattsun replied, his voice gently mocking.

They looked at each other.

Paused.

And then Mattsun tilted his head.

And Taka tilted his, and was about to pout his lips but—

“IT _IS_ YOU!” Taka burst out.

“What?”

YOU. TILTING YOUR HEAD!”

“Huh… NO IT’S YOU! And you pouted your lips.”

“BECAUSE YOU DID FIRST!”

“NO!”

Actually, he was right. Mattsun hadn’t pouted his lips at all. That had all been Taka, but he _had_ looked at him. And they’d paused. Finally he’d tilted his head. So what was Taka supposed to do?

“Look. Pause. Tilt head,” Mattsun muttered. “We … um … saw the same show.”

“Uh… possibly.”

A dumb teen show where the heroine wanted advice on kissing and her slightly more experienced friend had explained how it was all in the _Look,_ then there’d be a _Pause_ , and finally one or both would _Tilt_ their heads ‘and then you know, Chi-chan!’ and it had all been stupid and Taka had only watched it because it was on just before his favourite show.

Makki’s favourite show, too, now he thought about it.

Clearing his throat, Mattsun pulled a hand out of his pocket and clasped Taka’s arm. “So, um, wanna kiss?”

And although eleventy-seven reasons crammed into his head telling him what a mad idea this was, Takahiro gave Mattsun a look, paused and tilted his head.

“Yeah, why not.”

 

 _'Train comes I don't know its destination_  
_It's a one-way ticket to a madman's situation.'_


End file.
